


Reads

by Nope



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-05-01
Updated: 2003-05-01
Packaged: 2018-12-23 10:52:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11988309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nope/pseuds/Nope
Summary: Harry, Draco, books, bodies, days in Summer and Winter and the beginning and end of everything and nothing.





	Reads

"The body is his book"  
**\--John Donne**

_You've got it all backwards. It's a love story._

~*~

SCENE: Father's Office, Malfoy Manor. Night.

The Dark Lord's body was splashed on the floor and quite a bit of the wall and also, Draco noted blankly, Father's favourite bookcase, an antique wooden monstrosity with hideous carved bookends and unread, expensive books that were currently burning. Father was lying at its base, bruised and battered and making pained grunts as he struggled up onto hands and knees. Smoke was rising from Father's torn and stained robes and also from the carpet beneath him. It had been charred in a black circle inside which the flagstones beneath showed through, smooth and oddly glassy.

At the centre of destruction stood Harry, the sharp edges of a broken Death-Eater's mask at his feet, broken bonds still hanging from him and green sparks dibbling from the yew wand clutched in his white knuckled hands. He turned slowly away from the mess on the wall, eyes sliding blankly across Draco.

"Harry," tried Draco, managing only a squeak; and he couldn't think of anything else to say.

Harry's gaze drifted back to the wand in his grip. His face twisted, and so did his hands. The wand snapping sounded like bones breaking. Light flared and Draco looked away. He saw his father raise his wand and without conscious thought Draco waved his own -- _"Expelliarmus!"_ \-- putting out a distracted hand to catch the flying shape.

_And then there were three_ , Draco thought, staring at the wands in his hands, his own, of course, and Harry's, which Draco had been bringing to him although apparently Harry had done all right without it, and Father's. He looked back up to see that Father had regained his feet and had begun moving towards him. Harry stepped between them, looking at Draco. Father stopped. Draco looked from one to the other, back again, and back again.

"Draco," pleaded Harry and Father said "Son."

One to the other and back again. His legs wouldn't move. Harry. Father.

"I don't," managed Draco. "I don't know what--"

He shook his head, hard, and tossed the wands on the ground halfway between Father and Harry and turned his back. The hall swam before him. He blinked through the afterimages of green light. Feet whispered on the carpet. He managed a whole three steps before falling to his knees and acquainting the antique weave with his half-digested dinner. A hand rubbed his back. He turned into the encircling arms.

~*~

_Thin scar centred on forehead, falling from just below hairline across the anja chakra, the third-eye, a zigzagging flash of pale flesh._

(...and once there was a boy who was neither one thing or the other but wanted to be everything, so he made himself a new face and a new name and if he could not change history then he would shape the future to his will, and he gathered to him men in masks and made servants of kings and held dominion over land and air and beasts and hearts and minds and then one day in a small house in the middle of nowhere he touched his wand to a tiny baby's forehead and lost everything in a single inverted blink of green...)

~*~

It's later: the wrong side of midnight in Malfoy Manor. You're all alone, just you and Harry and an entanglement of sheets. He's on his back, using an arm as a pillow and you're using him -- pressed against translucent skin in the moonlight.

You curl into the slow rise and fall of his chest, fingertips brushing a nipple, the other hand curled at your throat and your head tight against his shoulder. His breath is cool against your hair. Silver shivers ripple down from your scalp. When you raise your head, you see his eyes are open under stray strands of ink black hair, staring at the shadows on the ceiling.

The open curtains rustle in a low draught and there's an empty open sky beyond the frost touched windows. Right now, the window faces west; you could see the leafless orchards if you stretched. You settle back into your original position, wrap a leg around him, pull his arm around you like a blanket and close your eyes.

Harry's stay open.

~*~

SCENE: Godric's Hollow. Morning.

"Oh, for-- Who wrote these questions?"

"What questions? Draco? What quest-- Oh! Hello Colin. ...Colin?"

"Mm? Oh, he can't reply. Would you look at this? Seriously, that's just pathetic."

"...why can't he--"

"Full body bind. He annoyed me. Have you seen these questions?"

"What? No. ....what?"

"Why Moody let him in, I'll never know. Where is our esteemed eccentric one-eyed watchdog, anyway?"

"Sweeping the perimeter. Draco, why--?"

"Manual labour? How quaint."

"Not. Literally. Malfoy."

"Shame."

"Why is Colin here?"

"Creevey's come to interview us for Witch Weekly's Summer Solstice special."

"You got the job? Congratula-- oh, this is ridiculous. Draco, let him go."

"In a minute. Listen to-- 'What do you think are your most recognisable features?' Hmm, I'm Harry Potter, what could people possibly notice about me? Oh, wait..."

"Well, that's not... People -- who knew my parents, I mean -- are always telling me I have my mother's eyes--"

"Really?"

"Yeah."

"Do you keep them in a jar--"

"Draco--"

"--under your bed with--"

"Malfoy! Gross!"

"I have my father's eyes, you know."

"...you do, yes."

"In fact, I'm wearing them as cufflinks right--"

"Oh, you are SO dead..."

"Hey! Ow! Whatever happened to Gryffindor nobility, Pot-- ow! O-- oh! Ohhh... mmmm..."

"Mmm?"

"MmmmMMMMMff OW! POTTER!"

"Heh heh heh."

"You BIT me, you-- Hey! Get back here you four eyed tosser!"

"Make me!"

"Come here!"

"Missed me! Hah! You couldn't even catch a cold, Malfoy."

"Is that so, Potter? Is. That. S-- Gotcha!"

"Argh! Hey, ha, ha, no, no fair, no tickling, no TICK--"

"Say I'm the better seeker."

"I'm the better see-- no, don't-- okay, okay! Draco! You're the better seeker, you're the better--"

"Damn right I am."

"I hate you, Draco. You know that, right?"

"And I hate you too, Harry."

"So why are we doing this, again?"

"You're neurotic, I'm diabolically attractive and the sex is really, REALLY good."

"Oh. Yeah. That."

"Stop giggling when I'm trying to kiss you."

"I wasn't giggling, I wammmf!"

"Mmmm."

"Mm-hmm. We should, ummm, let Colin, ohhh..."

"Harry?"

"Mmm?"

"...can you hear a sort of, well, scratching noise?"

"Scratch--? Oh! Oh, shit!"

"What is it? Harry, where are you going?"

"It's a bloody Quick-Notes qu--*"

~*~

_A ragged, dark edged mark inside his elbow, twisted and stretched by the motion of his arm._

(...and once there was a boy, a fat little boy of little regard, scavenging himself an existence protected and eclipsed by brighter, faster, more popular friends and trusted, always trusted, always keeping their secrets, as he kept his own, the twistings of fear in his stomach and the thin thrill of disgust that ripples through him whenever Lily talks about Muggles, James watching her with those big soppy cow eyes, and Sirius watching her, and Remus watching her, and Severus watching her, everyone loves Lily, and it's later and he meets Lucius at a party somewhere and it's later still and the red eyed master commands him and when it comes right down to it, to the bare essentials, all he really wants is to survive, and anyway secrets are just words, except Lily is dead and so is he, loses himself in another body for a decade or more, and then everything breaks, a blur, red eyes, the boy on the tombstone, the knife, his hand, the train, Hogwarts and Godric's Hollow and the Burrow and Malfoy and the other Malfoy and another secret that kills him when he tells it, only this time for real, for keeps, and his last green-tinged thoughts are, I was a rat, I was a good rat...)

~*~

Harry's on his back, bent double like a centrefold and his eyes don't leave yours as you sink back inside him. You swallow and you can still taste him on your lips, on your tongue, in your throat. The fire in the grate, burning the chill from the room, moves shadows of you across the canopy of the bed. Your pelvis rocks of its own accord; slow sliding into the depths of him.

Your hair curls on your forehead, wet, slick silver; you shake it away from your eyes. Sweat drips loudly. A tight inwards spiral coils in your gut. Your hands convulse on his legs, forcing him back and up to meet you coming down, bottoming out without sound or complaint, his unreadable eyes on you, in you.

The groan shoves its way up from deep inside your chest. Your tongue strangles it against clenching teeth. The icy brilliance of his stare forces your eyes closed. Thought splinters in the first startling spasm. The pulses come, rising, pounding your heart against your ribs, clutching, bursting jerks.

Green explodes behind your eyelids.

~*~

SCENE: Hallway, Malfoy Manor. Late Evening

Kicking the gurgling body once more for good measure, Draco snatched up Harry's wand and, darting out of the drawing room into the hallway, found himself face to wand with Hermione Granger. Silence stretched across the space between them. Draco's eyes flicked past her to the open doorway opposite, the library door, flicked down to the book in her hand -- one of Father's extensive counter-charm references -- and back up to meet her eyes.

"What are you doing here?" they both asked.

"I happen to live here," snapped Draco.

"Not recently."

"Yeah, well, change happens. That's life. What are you doing here?"

"What do you think?" asked Hermione. "I thought you were supposed to be the clever one?"

"I think," said Draco, "that what you think you're doing is performing some kind of heroic rescue mission--"

"I'm--"

"--although, of course, what you're actually doing is committing a rather pointlessly complicated form of suicide."

"Malfoy, I don't have time for--" She looked past him. "That's--Who is that?"

"Macnair. You really shouldn't ever turn your back on a Malfoy."

"What did you do to-- Did you--?"

"He's not dead, if that's what you mean; although he probably wishes he was."

"Was he going for your secret chamber?" asked Hermione, then blushed.

Draco smirked.

"That wasn't what I meant at all, I-- Look, Malfoy, Draco--"

"Malfoy will do."

"Are you going to help me or stop me?" Her wand hadn't lowered even a little. "Every second counts. I've got to get back to the prisoners before--"

"Potter's probably-- prisoner **s**?"

"Harry's here already? I only just sent Pig off--"

"What do you-- Granger, what are you talking about?"

"The raid on the Ministry, of course." He must have reacted, because Hermione's eyes went wide. "You didn't know? You didn't know... Draco, the Death Eaters--"

"I got it."

"You don't get it, Malfoy. They were enrolling the new Aurors and-- Harry's here?"

"Yes."

"Then we have to find him!"

" **I** have to. And I can't believe you broke into the Manor just to save a couple of recruits--"

"Not just recruits! Commencement is an important ceremony; half the Aurors in the country were there. And Ron and Blaise and... and our, our families--" Hermione shook her head, irritably, blinking away tears. "Malfoy, if Harry's in danger--"

"Harry's always in danger. I can get you down to the cells without being seen. Get the Wizards out first and--"

"Malfoy!"

"Wizards first," said Draco. "Give me your word."

"Malfoy, he has my parents!"

Draco said nothing, just slapped her with his smile, and Hermione slapped him with her hand to both and neither's surprise and her ring left a line in the rise of red flesh, first white then dripping crimson. Pure and eloquent blood, she thought, so distinctly wrought; a misquote; shame made her try and hit him again but his hand had her wrist and it twisted just a little further than far enough to make her scream.

"You get the Wizards out first," hissed Draco, "or I'll stun you right now and deliver you to the Dark Lord myself."

"Please, Malfoy--"

"Promise me."

"Yes, god, yes, Malfoy, let go of--"

Draco did. "In the gallery, by the portrait of my mother. Tap the third stone up, fourth across; it'll open up, let you down into the cells without anyone seeing." He glanced pointedly at the book. "I presume you can handle the wards?"

"Third up--?"

"Fourth across."

She nodded, took a step away and stopped when he moved too, but in the opposite direction. "Where are you going?"

"Where do you think?" he sneered. "To find Harry."

~*~

_Nail marks in the back, teeth where neck meets shoulder, fingerprints on thighs and a brown ring of bruises at the opening._

(...and once there was a boy who loved his parents very much, a pretty pointed thing, gold and silver crowned and hollow but unknowing, breezing through life on his father's hate and his mother's money, living in the always now until one day he's getting robes and he meets another boy who's gone before he gets a name, a lingering memory of black and white and green that's made solid again on the first train to school and they laugh at his name and the boy, Potter, refuses his hand and when Potter's angry he lights up like nothing else in the world, and the boy finds himself wanting it, that blinding reaction, and he watches Potter for just that opportunity, watches Potter throw himself at everything till he breaks and beyond that and the boy squeezes a reaction out of every available moment, needing that curl of Potter's lip, that green fire behind the glasses, the stubborn set of shoulders and legs and arms and quivering wand, and the boy finds himself making plans, actually thinking about the future, like Potter's made the world wider just by living in it so hard, because the boy's never met anyone who lives as much as Potter, Potter who always wins, who comes back from a triumphant third task a trembling wreck, Potter who doesn't seem to sleep anymore, wandering the halls at night, and twice, thrice, a dozen times the boy has to distract Filch, distract Peeves, distract Snape to keep Potter out of detention, and Potter flounders on the pitch until the boy cuts the game short to yell at him, and yell at him, and for Merlin's sake, WAKE UP, POTTER, and just for a second the lights come back on behind the green, and after a while Potter is actually there again when they pass in the halls, and Potter and the boy actually manage a conversation once after a particularly badly played Ravenclaw/Hufflepuff game and the boy's father is still ranting and cowering and bending his knee, like it's still yesterday, and the future is collapsing down upon them but the boy can see another way out and he seizes it, because he'd gladly follow his father into war and hell but even betrayal is better than crawling across broken ground to kiss the hem of some halfling thing's robe, and he stops Potter after that last match to say, good game, Harry and the world dissolves under the force of those green smiling eyes...)

~*~

You manage three stumbled half-steps into your bedroom before the continued space between you gets too much to handle and you're back on Harry, grabbing him, trying to climb into his mouth, grinding him into the back of the door, hands everywhere you can reach all at the same time. You move, pull Harry with you, pressed skin to skin, stagger backwards, trying for the bed and hitting the desk instead, no, it's the chair, you can feel the rosewood curve digging into the small of your back.

It's a shuffle and a struggle but suddenly you're perched on it, feet at Harry's calves, arms round his neck, looking down into those addictive eyes, and you manage to say bed and a smile almost curls at his lips and you suddenly have to breathe, breathe Harry, and your weight coming hard off the chair sends him falling backwards, slipping steps in a struggle for balance until you both slam into the complaining mirror.

Your hands leave slowly fading frosted prints on the shocked glass as you slide down Harry to your feet, practically hanging off him, your legs are so weak and you can't quite remember how knees are supposed to work, and there's heat in your cheeks and behind your eyes and Harry feels so good against you, hard and uncomplicated under you fingers, around your tongue and, and, Merlin, where's the damn bed, when'd your room get so fucking big, and then it's there, finally it's there behind you and you back into it, pulling him after, pulling Harry with you, sliding back onto it and him into you, pulling Harry down and out till there's no part of you not touching him and you're holding him so hard it hurts and there's a single heart beating in both chests.

~*~

SCENE: the Paddock, Ottery St. Catchpole. Day.

Harry flew like breathing but Draco had to think, and he thought, this broomstick's not really made for two, and he thought he said "We're going to get killed!" but apparently it was "Go faster" because Harry flashed him that blinding grin and did just that, turning his laughing head back into the slipstream; the grin somehow lingered; shit-eating grin, thought Draco and smiled, but right on top of thought was "death-eating grin" and suddenly it wasn't so funny anymore; the broomstick vibrated beneath him and he wanted off, needed to get off it, forced them down out of the too bright sky, staggered away three steps and dropped to his knees and vomited yellow on the bright green grass and a hand rubbed his back and he turned into the encircling arms.

~*~

_On the left shoulder, a small white line, widening at one end._

(...and once there was a boy with fiery hair and too many freckles and almost as many brothers, and a sister too for good measure, a short stocky boy on awkward feet but fast and sure in the air, a schoolboy Seeker without peer, until Harry, at any rate, and anyway flying was fun but it was nothing to the thrill of seeing his first dragon, or actually touching one, or being hand-picked to oversee Wales' dragon reserve, or being head-hunted to join the Romanian Research Centre as their youngest Dragon Keeper ever, or being nearly flame grilled by a particularly vicious Longhorn, a blur of green and gold that took seven stunning spells to bring down, and when he comes back to Hogwarts to keep an eye on the dragons and watches Harry and his broomstick against the Hungarian Horntail and watches Harry get hit by the dragon's spiked tail, what the boy is mostly thinking is, look at that agile bitch fly...)

~*~

You take his hand in yours and bring it to your cheek, turning your head into the curve of his fingers. His touch tingles at your lips and you open them around his fingertip, slide them down and back up. You turn his hand again, kiss his palm, the base of his thumb, his wrist, suck at the pulse point, fumbling blindly for his other hand.

Kissing up his arm, you entwine your fingers in his, pulling his arms around you and him into you, nibbling at his collarbone as you release his hands and trail your own up the path your lips left behind. Your mouth finds his throat, sucking at his adam's apple as your arms go around his neck, crossing behind him, tugging him into you.

The feel of him against you draws you inexorably upwards, kissing his jaw, his cheek, the corner of his mouth, biting at his lips, testing them with your tongue, pushing soft inside, and hard as his teeth part to permit you entry and as his hands fall away you bring yours back down, down him, and with your fingers you write yourself into his skin.

~*~

SCENE: Infirmary, Hogwarts. Late Night.

He could see the body in the bed from the Infirmary door, a dark shape on over-starched whites, face hidden by the half-closed curtain. His footsteps were almost as loud as his heartbeat. The door swung closed behind him, making him jump, curse and bite his tongue in rapid succession. There was no response from the bed, a disconcerting lack of movement: just a solid shape under the sheets.

Malfoy decided he was being stupid. If he went back to bed right now, he could get a good four hours sleep before breakfast. Right. He'd do that. Here he went. Any second now.

He took another step forward.

_Oh, bravo, Malfoy. Bra. Vo._

Draco edged around the curtain and stopped. There was no reaction from the boy on his back on the bed, his hands behind his head, staring blankly at the ceiling.

"You better not be dead, Potter," whispered Draco, sidling up to the bed.

"I'm not," said Harry, making Draco start and bump the side table and send a small tray and Harry's Quidditch gloves crashing to the floor, which made him jump back in the other direction, bang into the bed, curse loudly then slap his hands over his mouth.

Harry grinned through the long echoing silence and didn't look around once.

"You're a bit of a wanker, really," muttered Draco.

"And you went to all this trouble to come and see me?"

"It wasn't any trouble," said Draco. "I just stole your cloak."

"I'd noticed."

"You can't see me, Potter."

"Bit of a give away, that, Malfoy."

Draco glared at Harry until he remembered he was invisible and there wasn't much point. He pulled the cloak off, irritated. "How are you, anyway?"

Harry gave the closest he could get to a shrug while lying down. "Fine."

"You're not fine," snapped Draco. "They don't keep people who are in overnight,  
or--"

"I'll survive."

"--well, maybe you they do, but--

"Draco."

"--you're always the--"

"Draco," repeated Harry loudly, sitting up.

"--favoured-- what?"

"I'm going to be fine. Really. Just a little bruised."

"Harry," sighed Draco.

"A lot bruised, then."

Draco snorted and Harry smiled over the rims of his glasses. "It's okay to be worried, you know."

"Shut up, Potter."

Draco's glare would have been slightly more intimidating if he hadn't been shivering from head to foot while doing it.

"Come here," said Harry, scooting over and lifting up the edge of the sheet.

"I'm fuh-fine."

"You're fuh-freezing. Come on, you can't catch anything--"

"Don't say--"

"--which is pretty much the story of your life, come to think of it."

"If you weren't half dead, I'd hit you."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. Get in, would you, you daft git? It's bloody cold."

Draco's eyes narrowed, but he said nothing, pushing himself up onto the bed, sliding down next to Harry and pulling the covers over them. Harry promptly pulled Draco into his arms and winced as, turning to get comfortable, Draco elbowed him in his bruised ribs.

"Sorry," said Draco, who didn't sound it.

"'Sokay," said Harry, through gritted teeth.

Draco smirked to himself, resting his head against Harry's shoulder, listening to his breathing. It was oddly soothing and he didn't even complain when Harry started stroking his hair.

"Harry?" he asked after a moment.

"Yes, Draco?"

"Don't do this again."

"No, Draco."

"Okay."

"Anyway, it was our last match. Here, I mean."

They were quiet for a while. Draco felt Harry sigh, and twisted his head to look up. "Are you brooding again?"

"I was just... thinking. About after."

"After?"

"After this. After Hogwarts. After summer."

"Well, don't," Draco ordered him.

"Yes, your Majesty."

"Good. It hurts when you're sad," said Draco, a little petulantly, curling tighter into Harry's heat. "I don't like it."

Harry smiled against Draco's hair.

~*~

_Starting at right shoulder, descending across back, hidden to the eye but obvious to the touch, a swathe of textured skin among the smooth._

(...and once there was a boy who was an enthusiastic fan and handy with a camera and he came out to watch the game when few others had because it was dark and raining but they were still playing against the complaints of both captains because it was the last game of the last year and another vicious grudge match and the camera was a comforting weight in his hand as he took a shot of Harry slashing past and a green and silver blur of a Malfoy too and a shot of missed bludger rushing towards them and Malfoy nudging Harry out of its path, and Harry misjudging the distance on the turn and hitting the stands and picture after picture of the stalled broom grinding Harry along the wood, ripping robes and grating skin until Malfoy came diving up, knocking the tail of Harry's broom with his own and sending Harry sprawling out into the middle of the game where he somehow, some impossible how, caught the snitch, pure fucking chance and the flare of the camera flash and a final shot of smiling Malfoy because Slytherin were so far up on points they won anyway, or maybe just because Harry was grinning at him from behind blood touched and rain-slicked glasses...)

~*~

You're an ink stain shy of naked and he's still clothed and it feels right this way around. Harry's robe eats light; it's cold and heavy and rippling against your fingers as your slide it away from his shoulders. It whispers as it falls down him, catching briefly at his hips before collapsing into a rustling pile around his feet. He's wearing a sleeveless jumper underneath, a tightness of grey wool. When you push it up, his shirt comes too and your tongue finds itself in his belly button before you can stop yourself.

You kiss up to the buttons before backing off, pushing his arms up. He obliges you by holding them steady as you pull the jumper after. Static crackles in his hair, in the cloth, against your fingers. You drop the top on the discarded robes and work your way back down, undoing each button with careful shaking fingers. The cuffs follow, first left, then right; then, sliding your fingers inside the collar, you lift the paper-thin shirt away from him and let it flutter down.

Your hands follow, caress down his chest, across his stomach, work his belt from his trousers. It hisses free at speed, dangerous friction, casually discarded, frantic fingers already working at the button. It won't come loose. You use your teeth. Thread snaps. He's free. You tug them down and his underwear comes with them, and you have to close your eyes and hold your breath until you've got his socks off him or you'll lose it right there.

And Harry's before you, naked and scarred and proud and perfect in every way.

~*~

SCENE: Narcissa's Garden, Malfoy Manor. Afternoon.

The garden smelt faintly of honeysuckle and also of roses but mostly of fresh cut green. Father was pruning. Draco stood silently on the sun warmed stones, hands crossed behind his back and eyes on his feet, carefully ignoring the sweat trailing down his spine and Macnair standing behind him, holding his wand and Harry's and so close the man's breath disturbed the hair curling at his neck.

"I don't think I need to tell you I'm disappointed in you, Draco," said Lucius and directed the flying clippers to remove a less vibrant golden flower.

"Yes, father."

"I would hope that someone of an age to make his own decisions would be of an age to choose more... appropriate company." Lucius stepped back to admire his work. "Still; I do not despair."

"Sir?"

"Sometimes what we're looking at is not what we're really seeing, Draco." Lucius gestured vaguely with the shears. "Truth is often disguised by a more convenient lie; we accept the facade because we do not wish to believe what lies beneath."

"As in... a Quick-Notes quill could actually be a portkey, for instance?"

"A relevant, if not particularly apt, metaphor." With a dismissive gesture, Lucius shrank the small gardening implements back into their box and turned to face his son. "As in, mistaking physical need for spiritual desire. As in, Draco, mistaking gratitude for love."

Draco said nothing. Lucius met his eyes with a steady, studying look.

After a moment, he said, "I believe in you, Draco. I believe in your potential."

"Thank you, Father."

"I believe you have in you what it takes to live up to the Malfoy name, to overcome your irrational fear of Duty and take your rightful place at our Master's side. It is merely a question of training, of appropriate cultivation. Take your mother's roses, for instance." Lucius waved one hand at the trellis, the curling green thorns and the golden blooms; the other summoned the wheelbarrow, which came sliding all but silently towards them. "We take the seeds, we plant them in a foundation of blood and bone and we stand back and watch them grow."

The wheelbarrow emptied its dark contents at the base of the trellis as Lucius picked up a shovel.

"And when they grow correctly, we reward them with care and comfort, attending to their every need." Lucius put his weight behind the shovel, digging in deep. "And when they grow too wild, or too fast for their own good, or the flowers are sickly and weak, what do we do?"

"We cut them down, sir."

"Exactly, my boy, exactly. Evolution doesn't favour the good, Draco; it favours the strong." Lucius smiled, tapping the black bundle at his feet with his shovel. "Isn't that right, Alastor?"

And he brought the shovel down again.

~*~

_A rising line of half-moon pockmarks, left calf, again above the knee, and on the left arm intersecting a line only visible when he's tanned and barely then, a repeating shape of shallow marks and two darker and deeper and neatly criss-crossed._

(...and once there was a boy who talked to a snake who had never been to Brazil, and to a snake that had come out of a wand, and to a snake that was made of stone, though not to the bright green serpent whose giant fang skewered his arm, too busy trying not be dead, and the boy talked to a snakelord made of smoke in the middle of a dark forest who told him how he would die or live and why neither mattered and to a whole nest of tiny vicious snakes who sang for him and let him pass and to thirteen, fourteen, fifteen feet of undulating death and servant scales that called itself Nagini and sank its teeth into him again and again and again until he pushed his wand through its eye and scrambled its brains and later they had to cut him again to get the poison out...)

~*~

You're sitting in the dip of a too-tall leather chair and it's only the middle of the afternoon but already long sunset shadows are sprawling across Father's desk, across your face and hands and the quill and the book and the inkpot and the desk and the rug and the sofa and Harry, Harry who is perched at the edge with his hands limp and open in his lap and his eyes on you from behind the flat sheen of his glasses.

The scratching of the nib is too loud, ink exploding on the page and you have to put the quill down before it deafens you and the rough feathers whisper through the air and slap echoing against the dark mahogany and green blotter. Your fingertips are wet and you have to rub your hands on your trousers again and again before you can bring yourself to close the book with them.

Leather creaks as you push yourself to your feet. The deep bass hush of your footsteps on the thick pile carpet makes your skin crawl. The last dregs of sunlight are heavy on your skin, the wooden crossbars cool, and your own shadow rushes ahead of you to drape itself over Harry. You cross the room in its wake, falling to your knees before him.

Harry's gaze holds yours and when you take them from him, years follow, and he looks disconcertingly older and younger at the same time. You fold the arms in neatly and place the glasses next to your wand on the bookshelf where they will be safe, where you will know to find them in the morning. You do all this without looking away from him, without ever looking away; and you're still holding his gaze as you take off your tie and begin to unbutton your clothes.

~*~

SCENE: Father's Office, Malfoy Manor. Night.

The body looked so small when Draco turned to look at it, all alone there on the rug, in the shadow of his father's desk. He clambered to his feet, pushing off the restraining hand, chest tight, fighting for breath against the howl rising in his throat. And it seemed such a long way to go, so far and so cold, crossing those few steps, and he fell back to his knees and his hands wouldn't reach that last distance, touch those robes, that black hair, those cracked glasses, and Father says "my boy, my darling boy" and the scream that vomits from his throat shapes two words into a blizzard of green.

~*~

_Nothing, not a mark, a blemish, a hair out of place, just old scars and those open eyes, flat and empty, and the limp mouth and slumped limbs and the too still chest._

(...and once there was a boy who lived and once there wasn't.)

~*~

You like it at first: it's small and homely and the rooms don't move and the front door always opens on the same view; but there's an inch of dust on the too-small kitchen table and in the living room the grandfather clock's golden hands spin in lazy circles and never quite stop on anything. The Manor feels as empty with people as it does without; without people, the Burrow feels dead.

Robes whisper against both walls as you hurry down the passageway and take the uneven stairs at as close to two-at-a-time as you can safely manage. The first floor bathroom holds nothing of interest the zigzag of stairs takes you quickly past it and up to a door marked Percy and hiding a memory of Ministry officials and practically nothing else. Dawn's pink-grey outside Percy's window, large autumn sun just pushing over the horizon. Onwards and upwards. It's here in the house, you can feel it.

The third floor door gives against your shoulder. The bedroom's frills tell you it's a girl's room; the posters tell you she shares her brother's Quidditch obsessions. The bookshelves are useless. The roll-top on the desk resists you just long enough to pique interest then snaps delightedly open to disappoint. The bed is just a bed. Paranoid dolls' unblinking glares follow you around the room.

You stalk and mutter and knock things over and finally a floorboard creaks in a way the others don't. You almost break your wand prying it up, but that's okay, because under it, under it--

The book. Just exactly as you pictured it. Slightly shabby, black covered, crinkled edges to the paper, a faint, familiar scent.

You take it back to the desk, toss aside papers until you find a sealed, half-empty bottle of disgustingly purple ink and then hunt again through the draws, cursing yourself for not bringing your own quill, how stupid was that, and finally you find one, crumpled and half chewed in the back of the bottom draw, and you bring it up and open the ink bottle and slide it in and then you open the book to a page as momentarily blank as your mind.

You haven't dared breath since you picked up the quill and your hands tremble with the effort and the ink runs and blots, nothing like your usual elegant penmanship. You write ' _My name is Draco Malfoy_ ' and the words glow and fade, sucked away, and you're biting at your lip, biting hard, biting through, copper on your tongue, and the wait hurts, razors in your stomach.

The reply oozes out of the page: ' _Hello, Draco Malfoy. My name is Harry Potter. How did you come by my diary?_ '

When you finally gasp for breath, blood flecks strike the page and sink into nothingness.

~*~

SCENE: Somewhere, Somewhen. Inevitably.

Draco will close the dairy and light the fire and watch the paper curl and blacken and there will be tears and ash.

And his wand tip will be hot in the hollow of his throat.

~*~

_Green means stop._


End file.
